Of Feather, Gun and Humanity
by Lex Q. Coverdale
Summary: Simmons has never known the life of his own kind. Raised by the veteran ODST who only answers to "Sarge", this unlikely duo of human and Skirmisher treks across a post-war universe in a series of short stories. -*AU RvB Oneshot Collection*-
1. One: A Brief Recalling

**- One: A Brief Recalling -**

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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

_What was it like to have a mother?_

_According to Sarge, Jackal mothers weren't very nice.__ They squawked loudly and liked to rip things apart; they ate the humans they dragged out of burning equipment. They were ugly and they were foul-smelling, the scent something salty and acid-like; Sarge always said the stench of their corpses was like inhaling sulfur after battle. He also said - and quite often - that Simmons stank a lot when he was little; the young Skirmisher could remember being **forced **into a cold shower at every day's end. It hadn't felt very nice at first - the Skirmisher's tropically-adapted nature called for warmer water - but he grew used to it as he got older._

_The war had been over years ago. He had been little older than a chick then - three or four years old in human years. Although he could vaguely remember Sarge being right about Jackal mothers - why his mother was a Jackal instead of a Skirmisher, Simmons didn't know, but it had to do with crossbreeding and related species - he could also remember kindness. He had seen a motherly softness in those harsh, bulbous eyes. Then, there had been fire, followed by explosions and a scream, with Sarge's soot-streaked face suddenly looking down at him ...  
_

_The story had been told to him again and again. There had been a UNSC raid, and Sarge had been dropped onto the surface of the Kig-Yar colony; bombs fell everywhere as the buildings lit like matches. It didn't matter if they were soldiers or civilians, males or females, chicks or the elderly - everyone was to die, gunned down if the flames did not consume them first. In Sarge's words, "It was justified - the damn dirty beasts kept trying to mooch off our supply routes. It was high time to teach them a lesson, and with a hell's load of firepower to boot!"  
_

_Despite the near-genocidal destruction, the operation was not completely merciless - prisoners had been taken. Apparently, Simmons's mother had been one of them; Sarge and a few other ODSTs had been assigned to looking after her, along with several other Kig-Yar of importance. (From what Simmons remembered, Sarge's group had lived in some asteroid-based colony with the saurian aliens, and thus, were the best qualified to deal with such.) There was an attempt in questioning her, but she resisted; as a result, they threatened to execute her chicks. She threatened to bite their heads off in return, going berserk and screaming profanity in Eaynian. Hell broke loose, and the ODSTs promptly shot her, as she somehow got loose and pulled a gun. _

_(Simmons couldn't believe himself as he recalled the tale - for someone known to be "so smart", he was making a lot of "something like thats" and vague guesses. He blamed it on a lack of sleep, due to the fact his newest accommodations had a bad case of bed bugs from Earth. And Sarge said the Kig-Yar could be unsanitary, feh!)_

_His brothers and sisters had died off quickly. Sarge had said that they needed their mother to survive; Simmons was the only exception. He was born a Skirmisher - probably from his non-existent father's side - and, physiologically, was hardier than the rest of them. "A bonafide natural upgrade," was the term Sarge had used, if the Skirmisher remembered correctly. Other than falling victim to a "pet the dog" moment, Simmons never really knew why the Sergeant had kept him around; the old ODST could have easily put a round through the chick's head, and sent him off with the rest of the siblings. Kig-Yar were defiant, vicious and prone to chronic backstabbing; the others had said Simmons was better off dead, lest Sarge find himself with a traitor in his midst. But, in a fashion most typical of the veteran warrior, he brushed off their concerns; Sarge was an ODST, with a loaded shotgun on hand almost every hour of the day. If the "miniature bird brain" was to pull anything, the Sergeant would gladly use him for target practice!  
_

_Despite whatever the debating soldiers had said, both human and alien had grown attached to each other, and there had been no backstabbing. Although, it was debatable on how much of a parental figure Sarge was; if the human was in a bad mood, then poor Simmons could say good-bye to any positive attention he could get from him. Hell, the Sergeant could even wave off an entire **apocalypse** if he didn't care about it -  
_

* * *

"SIMMONS! Where's that motor oil!"

Oh, great ... he had dozed off again. When had he become so lazy - wasn't that Grif's job? The stinking, fat excuse for human waste rarely lifted a finger, among other vital things. Never cleaning his armour or his weapons, always stuffing his mouth with cheese dip and snack cakes ... Feh. Simmons was disgusted by the very thought of his human roommate. Heck, he wasn't all that fond of humans in the first place, except maybe Sarge - why did he have to invite Grif to live with them in the first place? Couldn't Sarge find someone _else _to pay the rent for a room in the old military outpost?

"Coming sir!" the Skirmisher called out, hurrying from where he sat on top of what had been Red Base. Above him, the never-setting sun beat down harshly upon Blood Gulch, and Simmons had a feeling Sarge would be chewing him out for another shower sometime soon.

* * *

_Author's Note: This is another experimental fic, so please forgive me if there are more errors than I pick up on. As a quick recap (in case the narrative seemed confusing, which I apologize for), Simmons is a Skirmisher (a canon sub-species of Kig-Yar), raised by Sarge out of what Simmons can guess is pity. The war is over, Sarge is retired, and he and Simmons have purchased a defunct military base to turn into apartments. Grif is their first tenant._

_I promise to explain more later on, such as why the base still has armour and weapons lying around.  
_


	2. Two: Modern Day Bootleggers Part I

**- Two: Modern-Day Bootleggers (Pt. I) -**

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**_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

_**

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**When someone was dealing with Sarge, there were two things one had to remember. _

_One was that, especially if the end of a shotgun barrel was where that soul **didn't** want to be at, you didn't ask questions. Sarge provided the food, the water, the electricity and protection; he expected people to shut up and pay their rent in return. If he gave someone the go-ahead, then sure - they could ask away to their heart's delight. Start trying to pry into Sarge's private life, though, and he wouldn't hesitate to execute the unlucky moron on the spot._

_Second, if someone didn't pay rent on time, then that someone was a waste of Sarge's resources. Sure, he'd let the first payment or two slip a few days, but keep it up and he'd start aiming. He was running a business, and if he wanted his clientèle to have the best place he could provide, money was necessary. Besides, what was the fun of owning his own land if Sarge couldn't spend anything to make it look nice?_

_

* * *

_

Simmons didn't know why they didn't shoot Grif there and then. _Anything _would have been better then trying to bring the fat, reeking ex-soldier along for the supply run. Who cared if he was the only inhabitant in Sarge's new housing project? With all the wanderers after the war that were living on _ships_, for God's sake, they could always find someone else!

"Nrgh ... hrk ... _ack_! How the hell do you fit into this!" cried Grif - or rather, _Yellow Two _as he was to be known. "It's like trying to fit comfortably into a waffle iron!"

"Oh, shut the hell up, numb-nuts, " growled Sarge, placing the last of his shells into his trusty shotgun, giving the weapon a good pump. "This wouldn't be happening if you'd pay your due on time! Do you know how hard it is to get hot water in the middle of that canyon? There's a reason Command abandoned it!"

"Yeah, but you didn't say I had to _leave _the ship!" argued Grif. "I thought I was supposed to stand around and stay on watch!"

"You were," said Simmons, adjusting the holster around his hips to fit more snugly. "But where we're going, you'll need a suit of armour. It's a bit ... out there."

"Wait, _what_?" cried Grif. "We're going into orbit? F*-(!+/# _orbit_? What in the _hell _do you guys do?"

"Oh, quit being a such a baby and get some," snapped Sarge, giving his helmet's visor one last wipe-down. "You want to stay on _my land_, you either pay me or get out. If all else fails, and you want to see another day, you compensate. Unless, of course, you want to skip right ahead to the 'get out' part here and now? Because it's quite easy for me to throw you out of this ship if you want me to. Simmons, the hatch?"

Grif yelped as the Skirmisher strode over towards the dropship's single escape hatch. "Okay, okay! You win!" cried the ex-soldier, running forward to try and keep Simmons from continuing forward. "Fine! I'll quit complaining - just don't throw me out of the freakin' _ship_! Do you know how high we are?"

"Exxxactly, dirtbag," said Sarge with a nod. Placing his rag on the bench he sat upon, he stood up, holding his helmet over his head. With a hiss, it clicked onto his shoulders and connected his systems, the HUD quickly popping up in front of Sarge. A quick scan revealed everyone to be in good health, although Grif's heart rate was a little high; the veteran chuckled. Grif gave the Sergeant a look after noticing the sound.

"What?"

"Don't p*&! your panties now, boy," said Sarge, flicking at something on the side of his helmet. "We've got work to do. SHEILA! Status report!"

From the closed channel Sarge had just activated, he could hear the female A.I. say, "ETA at five minutes, seven seconds and counting. Approaching the colony of Burnsburnia at a casual 21.598272138 knots. Weather is sunny with a light breeze, and perfect for landing. UNSC not detected."

"Excellent," said the ex-Sergeant. "Then this should go smoothly. Simmons, get the goods ready, and take the dirtbag with you! You'll know when we'll land!"

"Yessir!" replied the Skirmisher, placing his own, specially-modified helmet onto his shoulders. There was a snap and a hiss, and Simmons too flicked on his closed channel radio with Sheila. He turned to Grif, glaring from behind the visor.

"Well, quit standing around! Put on your helmet already, a**#-/{!"

* * *

The _Pelican _landed without incident, just outside of the tiny merchant town known as Burnsburnia. A UNSC colony, it was a haven for those who had escaped the glassed planets, as well as ex-Insurrectionists. With the rebuilding of Earth and her larger colonies the main priority, places like Burnsburnia had mostly been ignored; the people had been left to fend for themselves. Other than farming the mostly-warm fields outside of the colony, trade had become popular with ... less-than-legal goods, such as old UNSC equipment. Sarge had bought the deed for the Blood Gulch Outpost here; where else would one find the documents for land that had been used as classified testing grounds?

"Don't ask any questions unless you're told," said Sarge as Sheila opened the main hatch. "We're dealing with some d*!/ dirty folk here. Don't make any comments, just shut up and follow - not hard enough for you to understand, hm?"

"Yessir," said Simmons.

"I was talking to Grif, boy."

"Sorry sir."

Grif sighed. "Yes, Sergeant."

"Good."

The three made their way down the hillside Sheila had landed on. A gentle wind blew over the landscape, rustling the yellow-tinged grass lightly. Some sort of field bird sang, a strange melody of yips and tweets drifting over the landscape. Almost instinctively, Simmons tilted his head upwards to hear it, but quickly brushed the sound aside. Ever since he was young, he had reacted to birdsong reflexively; Sarge had said it had to do with his species.

"So," began Grif, deciding to make conversation as they walked rather slowly. "How come you live with Sarge, Simmons?"

The Skirmisher was silent, focused only on the task at hand. Eyes forward, he was completely oblivious to the awkwardness that now enveloped Grif. The yellow-armoured soldier frowned.

"Like the weather here? It seems nice."

Once again, no conversation, and Grif sighed - it was going to be a long walk. Unbeknownst to him, there was an entirely different reason why Simmons and Sarge weren't responding ...

* * *

"Look, it'll only take me two seconds to shoot him, and five minutes to dispose the body. Heck, I could give your four or two, depending on whether or not I could find a grav lift."

"Absolutely not, Simmons!" said Sarge on the two-way radio, the "mute voice" function on their suits preventing any communication from being heard by the outside world. "As a distraction, possible cannon fodder and the general third wheel to berate, Grif serves in a valuable place among the team! If you're so frustrated with the situation, why don't you contact that pacifist in town for a yoga lesson? Then maybe you can dress up for a little tea party, and explain all the problems in life while going, 'Boo-hoo-hoo!'"

Simmons chittered in annoyance - a habit natural to his species, in lieu of the grumbling a human would usually make. "I _don't _need therapy from some medical school _drop-out_ ... sir. I just am trying to analyse the situation for the best end result of this mission."

"Which will be determined by me, your ranking CO," said Sarge. "It's your job to shut your beak unless I ask for a status report. And where the hell is Grif's heavy breathing? Didn't you tell him to turn on the radio?"

Simmons said nothing. Sarge sighed.

"Right."

_Plonk!_

"OW!"

"Good, you're on line - welcome to the private Red Team radio channel," said Sarge. "Turn on your mute, boy."

Grif was stunned for a moment, trying to figure out why Sarge had just smacked him across the face. Upon Sarge's word's sinking in, there was a short, "Huh?" followed by a, "Oh yeah, right," from the yellow-armoured soldier. A soft click signalled that only the three could hear each other inside their suits now, much to the annoyance of Simmons.

"Now here's the plan," said Sarge as a small, wooden cabin appeared in the distance. "We look intimidating and demand the goods. I pay, you and Simmons grab what we need - "

"Wait, you didn't say there'd be any heavy lifting!" interjected Grif.

" - And high-tail it out of there before we get funny looks. Until we get back to the base, don't. Open. _Anything. _Grif, I expect you to follow this order straight through, since you seem to not be quite getting the whole reasoning behind a supply drop."

"Figures," Simmons mumbled, just barely enough for anyone to hear. He was ignored, though, as the three continued on to their target.

* * *

In the window of the cabin, a blond-haired woman looked out anxiously, twiddling her thumbs as she watched the three approach. Behind her, an adolescent of African-American descent laid back, bobbing his head to the music played from his chatter. It wasn't the cleanest of tracks - the old bat would have probably given him an earful for "corrupting her brood's minds" - but with the miracle that were wireless earphones, he didn't have a thing to worry about. One eye peeked open at the woman as she gently shook his foot, which was propped up on the arm of the couch he rested upon.

"Lavernius, go round up Michael and the girls," said the woman, motioning for the young man to pull out an earphone. "Tell them Mr. Sarge is here. You know the drill."

"You got it, Mrs. C," said Lavernius, swinging his legs off and down, standing up and giving a stretch. Leisurely walking towards the back garden, he tossed his chatter and earphones onto a nearby side table, not wanting to be bothered about them by his charges. All he needed was Michael, the oldest of the children, bugging him about playing "that awesome-tastic (but somewhat scary) flip music" Lavernius liked.

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_**- To Be Continued -**_

_**

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**Author's Note: "Flip music", in the Halo canon, is a descendant genre of what 21st century humanity refers to as "metal". The chatter, from what I can tell, is a sort of super-cellphone, with a system that is a mix between an iPhone and a laptop computer. (Please correct me if I am wrong.) The wireless earphones are a fanon creation (as far as I know), a descendant of the headphones of today; they are like the headphones you get with an iPod, but without the wires. They instead pick up signals from the chatter, just as a wireless radio would.**  
**_


	3. Three: Adventures in Cooking

**- Three: Adventures in Cooking -**

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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

**

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**_"SKAKARARARARARAWAWAWK!"_

_Ker-RASH!  
_

_Birds flew from their trees at the terrible sound. Small beasts stood on their haunches, wide eyes looking around fearfully at the noise - some even hurried back to their burrows. To a veteran soldier of the Human-Covenant war, the great screech would cause him or her to reach for a gun out of habit. Jackals, whenever angered, wounded or frightened, could make horrendous screams - Sarge hadn't heard something like that since the war._

_But there were no Jackals in Blood Gulch, only a Skirmisher - a subspecies of that foul mix between a chicken and a dinosaur. That particular Skirmisher sounded mighty furious, causing Sarge to mutter, "What in the Sam hell ... ?" before hurrying back to "Red Base Apartments". His projects could wait for later - if Simmons was making **that **much of a racket, then the safety of the apartments could not be guaranteed!  
_

_

* * *

_

Grif was near-hyperventilating. He had pinned himself into the nearest corner with terror as Simmons continued to squawk, flailing around like some hopeless drunk dancer. Smoke filled the tiny "kitchen" of the apartments, the cheap, almost-defunct automatic stove reeking of burnt food. One feathered arm ablaze, Simmons furiously attempted stopping, dropping and rolling, his lanky legs and taloned feet kicking out wildly. He even hit the barely-functioning refrigerator hard enough to make it _work _again!

"SIMMONS! GRIF! What in tarnation is goin' on in here?" yelled Sarge over Simmons's continued shrieks of pain. He ran into the kitchen just as the toaster went flying, yanked onto the floor after the cord tangled around a foot. Eyes widening, the ex-Sergeant grabbed a nearby bowl of moldy juice - not minding one bit it was full of day-old food bits - and threw it onto the Skirmisher. The avian alien froze in sudden shock, charred arm hissing with steam.

Dead silence filled the kitchen. Sarge scowled darkly, growling, "What. In. _The hell _was that?"

"Simmons set the soup on fire!"

"I did not, a*}/(#!" snapped Simmons, breathless from his panic attack. The great, feathery mane that all male Skirmishers had was puffed up like a panicked cat's fur. "_You're _the one who left the bread by the f&^*#+( _burner_! How the hell are we supposed to cook when you won't follow kitchen safety?"

"Oh don't blame this on me, chicken boy!" snapped Grif. "'It just needs a bit more heat,' he says! 'Quit worrying; Sarge taught me how to cook!' he claims! _You made a burner **explode**!_"

"SHUT UP AND PUT THAT MESS OUT!" barked Sarge. By then, the fire alarms were blazing loudly, and the nearly the entire upper half of the kitchen was filled with a black haze. "What are you trying to do, call the UNSC via signal fire?"

"Putting out fire!" yelped Grif, hurrying to a nearby pile of rag as Simmons leapt to his feet. Despite his arm smarting like never before, the Skirmisher grabbed a random bowl to be washed, fumbling with the tap for a moment. Grif grabbed a nearby washcloth and began smacking the stove's top, desperately trying to smother the flames, a frantic look on his face as the fabric caught fire.

With a disgusted grunt, Sarge growled under his breath. "Useless little ... " He stomped over to Simmons, grabbing the bowl from the alien and slopping water over the side. With practised efficiency and a marksman's aim once more, the ex-Sergeant tossed the liquid onto the stove, creating a loud hiss of steam and a large spark. A resounding bang went off as the stove's electrical burners shorted, and suddenly, all the lights went out in the building.

Once again, there was dead silence, until Grif quietly said, " ... That was one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen."

"Oh, shut up, dumb***," snapped Simmons, turning his head to glare at Grif. The human did the same, huffing and then coughing from the smoke. The Skirmisher snorted in amusement, only to start coughing himself, hacking breaths stirring the miasma around his beak-like mouth.

* * *

_Author's Note: This is only a brief interlude to the _Modern Day Bootleggers _series, meant to give readers not familiar with the Halo aspect of RvB a better mental picture of Skirmisher-Simmons._


	4. Four: Modern Day Bootleggers Part II

**- Four: Modern-Day Bootleggers (Pt. II) -**

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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_**  
**

**

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**_Carrie Caboose was an odd bird - at least, in the eyes of Simmons._

_For one, she would break out into fits of mumbling for no apparent reason, especially when thinking over something important. Her shoulders were something she liked touching; her right shoulder was favoured in particular. She even had a name for that shoulder - "Psy", if Simmons remembered correctly - and he had witnessed an entire conversation with it on the subject of abnormal psychology. The Skirmisher vividly remembered being whacked in the head with a wooden spoon after asking why Mrs. Caboose did that.  
_

_ Despite this, Sarge seemed quite tolerant of her ... quirkiness, despite having little patience for it in his own men._ _He laughed at her nonsensical jokes, tipped his helmet to Psy, asked how "the two maroons in her head" were doing, and almost always did business with her. Carrie Caboose, out of the entire population of Burnsburnia, had some of the best supply connections in that entire part of the galaxy. The goods, however, were not always of legal definition._

_

* * *

_

"All right you morons," snapped Sarge, "keep your suits muted. I'm goin' to do the negotiating, and if you know what's good for you, you'll shut your pie holes while I'm at it. This lady's a toooough cookie, and the last thing I need you two doing is throwing some sort of s!&^ at her."

"Wait, a girl?" asked Grif. "Huh. Never thought you'd be the type to have a chick - OW!"

"Can it, jack*&%!" snapped Simmons, bringing the butt of his gun away from Grif's side. "No smart-talking to the Sarge!"

"Excellent work Simmons," said Sarge. "Pain is a most effective way of dealing with insubordination; feel free to beat the ever-loving tenders out of the rookie if need be. This is important to the survival of Blood Gulch!"

"Yes sir," Simmons chirped, causing Grif to shoot a glare at the Skirmisher.

* * *

_Knock knock knock knock knock._

"It's open!" came a singsong voice in reply. Turning off his mute function, Sarge stepped into the cabin first, his helmet removed with a loud hiss. He smoothed back his grey hair, his wrinkled face in a polite smile as he nodded in greeting. Simmons and Grif followed en suite, remaining in the doorway as Sarge approached the blond woman.

"How do you do, Mrs. Caboose?" said Sarge.

"Oh, perfectly _wonderfully_, Mr. Sarge!" Mrs. Caboose replied sweetly. "The birds are tweeting, I made a cake, and Michael made me a muffin! How glorious, hm?"

Sarge chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah, muffins. The boy always did have a fondness for the bran variety. Business before conversation, though - do you have what I want?"

"Yes, most certainly!" said Mrs. Caboose. "Lavernius just picked up the shipment from across town a couple of days ago. Such trouble we had to go through, too; silly UNSC, getting their ships lost. Little old Burnsburnia isn't too much of a place of trouble, hm? They really have no need to be snooping around here!"

Simmons suddenly felt nervous. If Sarge was feeling the same, he wasn't showing it. Instead, he nodded, saying, "Right, right. UNSC always was a bit on the paranoid side, but I guess you can't blame them. We only just fought off the d*=& Covies, so they'll probably be doing the odd sweep. You know ... just in case they're missing something important."

It was Mrs. Caboose's turn to feel nervous, and the emotion flashed briefly across her face. However, she quickly regained her composure, although she sounded a bit stiff as she said, "Well then, shall we?" She then turned, motioning for the trio to follow her to a back room. There, they would go through another door, hidden in the back of a closet ...

* * *

"HOLY F*-(#%+# _HELL_!"

"Not so loud!" snapped Mrs. Caboose as Grif laid his eyes on the sight before him. There, in what couldn't be bigger than twelve feet by twelve feet, was the largest collection of rifles, ammunition, medical supplies and military rations that Grif had ever _seen_. There were even _Covenant weapons_, of all things, taking up three rows of shelves on the cellar's far wall. He continued to gawk at the numerous shelves as Simmons and Sarge walked by him, the former rolling his eyes in disbelief.

_He's a former soldier, for God's sake ... don't the UNSC ships keep themselves well-stocked?_

"The experimental Spartan Laser v2," said Mrs. Caboose, unlocking a padlock that kept the aforementioned weapon tightly bound to the wall. She then turned to face Sarge again. "One of hell of a kickback, but with a new stun setting. It's also been adjusted to create beams of varying sizes; one little zap to the back of the head is good for a (somewhat) stealthy kill."

Sarge whistled appreciatively. "My my my, Carrie ... you've outdone yourself this time. How much?"

"First thing's first, Sarge," said Carrie, hands on her hips. "Your next payment is due on my ship."

"Huh?" asked Sarge. "What payment?"

"Oh don't play dumb with me!" snapped Mrs. Caboose, her sugar-sweet demeanour suddenly one of spit and vinegar. "I gave you that d*#)-{$ ship _for lease_. Phyllis is _my_ A.I. - "

"Actually, she's called Sheila now - "

" - Fine. Sheila. Sheila is _my _A.I., and I went through one hell of an a*^-load of bull to acquire her. _You've _been mooching off of that ship long enough - _where's my money_?"

Sarge stepped back at the woman's glare, as well as the pistol now in his face. Simmons stiffened, readying his weapon, and Grif nearly jumped back into a barrel of year-old dinner rations. Coolly, Sarge replied, "Carrie, put down the gun. Don't do something you'll regret."

"Regret? HA! That's all bulls/*#, Sarge," said Mrs. Caboose, giving a tiny giggle. Her eyes were suddenly wide, and her smile belonged in a horror movie. "I regret nothing. I've blown apart guts and spines, snapped necks with my bare hands, and beat an Elite to death with its own skull - "

"Isn't that impossible?" asked Grif through the private channel. Simmons ignored him once again.

" - And I don't need you _in my way_. I've got thirteen children, my oldest is dimwitted as all hell, and I've got a baby under my wing that could screw off at any time. _To the UNSC. _So, _why _again should I relax?"

* * *

Lavernius swore quietly under his breath. With Michaela and Michelle - two of Caboose's younger sisters, second and third oldest respectively - in tow, the trio combed the fields behind the Cabooses' house. Michael had wandered off - yet again - and if Mrs. Caboose found her head count was missing one, she would had Lavernius's skin. The African-American sometimes regretted living with her; for all her kindness (and _delicious_ cooking, oh yes), she had ... a bit of a temper. Although she didn't talk about it much, she had served in the war with the Covenant, and it had not gone well for her.

"MICHAEL!" yelled Michelle, using her impressive set of lungs to cause an echo across the landscape. It was no wonder she was a good singer. "MICHAEL, WHERE ARE YOU? _MIIIIIICHAAAAAAAAEEEELLLLL!_"

"OI! DIPSTICK!" yelled Michaela, her voice deep and booming like thunder. She wasn't the most feminine of girls, and at first glance, you'd think she was a boy with an outrageously good shave. "MICHAEL, GET BACK HERE! MOM'S GOING TO GROUND YOU AGAIN!"

"MICHAEL! MICHAEL, GET OVER HERE! SERIOUSLY DUDE, THIS IS _NOT _FUNNY! YOUR MOM'S GOING TO BE TICKED!" yelled Lavernius. His impatience was ever growing; if he didn't get back soon enough, then little Mica would probably climb onto the roof again. Then, it would be a screaming contest between her and the African-American, as she _always _made a scene when she was in trouble. Then Mickey, another sister, would side with her "ultra-super partner-in-crime", and the _both _of them would scream, sniffle and sob. Why did they have to be seven and eight respectively? Couldn't they be like their older sisters - quieter, more accepting of Lavernius, and quite willing to distract Michael with something shiny if need be?

**_"MICHAEL J. CABOOSE!"_**

"Ow, Vern!" said Michelle, wincing away from Lavernius on that last yell. "That hurt! And Mom said _I _was loud!"

"Michaela, shut up," said Lavernius. "I'll d*&# well yell if I want to, f*&^ it! If you haven't noticed, we have a problem!"

"_I'M _Michaela!" snapped the one actually named such. "Quit mixing me up with the girl who likes ribbons and unicorns!"

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with enjoying _The Adventures of Princess Pinkymane _once in a while!" Michelle snapped back. "At least _I _can tell what gender I am in the morning, he-she!"

"HEY!" barked Lavernius, just barely managing to keep Michaela from pouncing on her younger sister. Shoving the angered tomboy back, he snapped, "Michelle, don't call your sister a he-she! Michaela, quit making jabs about liking unicorns. If Caboose is in trouble, he's more than willing to come to you. He usually just flips me of in ... that ... odd way of his."

"You're the one who dunked him in the toilet," said both girls at once.

"Yeah, he was scared of using the bathroom itself for a month! You told him the _bathtub_ would get him next!" snapped Michaela. "You know how bad a person smells when they refuse to shower at least once a week?"

Lavernius scowled at the pair. Sighing, he said, "Okay, _one_ - I had some major, major issues. I just happened to vent on Caboose. _Second_, he deserved it - he kept putting mustard in my shoes. Do you know how much I _paid _for those? Those were a vintage pair I got from Earth! _Earth!_ You can't find Earth-made goods out here very often! Those were a _collectible_!"

"I said the same about my _Pinkymane: Limited Edition_ piggybank," said Michelle, crossing her arms and pouting. "And you _broke it_."

"Hey, I thought it was garbage," said Lavernius. "Besides, that thing was about to fall apart anyways. You can only glue something so many times before the coins start sticking to the inside."

"You mean like how you stuck with that squid-head back on Tango Five?" laughed Michaela. Lavernius immediately lunged forward with his fist, catching the tomboy by surprise. It was to be expected, though; the little alien ... _thing_ ... that Lavernius had somehow become stuck with was a sore nerve for the young man. He had treated the grub like it was his kid and everything - when the UNSC became involved ... Lavernius hadn't talked much about it. In fact, he hadn't talked about much of his life before living with the Cabooses in Burnsburnia. All the Caboose children knew was that Mrs. Tucker and Carrie Caboose had been friends once upon a time.

"_You take that back, _you dirty _b^$*__#_!" snarled Lavernius. Again he went at Michaela with another swing. "Don't make me hurt you, I know how!"

"Oh, did wittle Verny get mad?" cooed Michaela. She easily dodged his next blow. "What, does the wittle Earth boy miss his wittle pet _maggot_?"

"Don't you _dare_ talk about Junior like that!" snapped Lavernius. He managed to graze the second-oldest Caboose's nose this time. "He's not a maggot! This isn't the war anymore, Michaela!"

"And why should I be so quick to excuse what the squiddies did?" snapped Michaela. "_You_ didn't get caught in the middle of a glassing, d%$-)^!"

"Oh, we are _not_ starting that again!" snapped Lavernius. "You sound like some chick out of a book, who gives a stupid excuse for being a b*$&( when the plot calls for a _stupid_ explanation for - "

**_BOOM!_**

Out of reflex, the entire group dove for the ground, covering their heads like they did for emergency drills during the war. Far-away shouts could be heard from the Caboose house, mostly high-pitched and feminine and no doubt the other girls'. Lavernius and the others bolted back up, each spinning around to face where the house was. All three of them were white with fright and surprise.

"Oh no ... " murmured Lavernius.

"Michael ... " said Michelle.

The trio took off towards the house.

* * *

_**- To Be Continued -**_


	5. Five: In the Dark

**- Five: In the Dark -**

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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_**  
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There was his mother, smiling sweetly at him. She looked beautiful in her teal armour, even if her face was wrinkled and haggard from substances that no body should have taken in. Leaning down, she brushed her lips against her son's forehead, frightful tears in his eyes. Though regret wrapped around her heart like a great snake, she had no other choice. This was her atonement, her penance for sins against her son and herself, and a better way of protecting him from what lay beyond.

Standing back up, she said, "Now you be good, Lavernius, for Mr. Flowers. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lavernius - much younger then - only sniffed. He was biting his lip, trying to hold back the crying and be "the big man". His mother smiled gently, patting him on the head, before looking at Mr. Flowers. The veteran smiled, nodding knowingly, his one remaining arm around Lavernius's shoulder. The man had, apparently, known his mother for years, and had been one of the most vocal against her decision. Still, he would not bring that up now; he had to put aside his worries for the greater good. Lavernius had nowhere else to go.

"You be safe now, Lena," he said softly. "Remember what we planned - if you get a craving - "

"Yes, I remember," said Lena Tucker. "I have them stored with me in a side slot. I'll try to keep in touch, but no promises; it's a little busy in the channels around here."

"Tango Five always had bad reception," said Mr. Flowers with a laugh. "Don't worry, I've got contacts. I'll make sure the littl'un gets everything you send, okay Vern?"

Lavernius sniffed again, nodding slightly. His mother looked satisfied, but ... there was still a touch of something in her face. She turned, a nearby pilot barking out for all to board. The younger Tucker's eyes burned.

"Be safe!" Lena yelled to her friend and child, replacing her helmet before jogging to join the rest of her comrades. Flowers waved, and so did Lavernius, letting out a couple of shaking sobs as his mother disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

_Tango Five only lasted so long before the Covenant broke through, making sweeping runs before being shooed off by UNSC defence ships. Lavernius would hide behind Mr. Flowers in the bunkers, the alarms screaming faintly above him, people crying and screaming as the world came down around him. Of all the most vivid memories he would have, being in the dark would be the most shaking; being unable to see, stepping and slipping in God knew what, Mr. Flowers not always with him._

_That wasn't the only kind of darkness he would grow accustomed to. After a few odd communications with his mother, he barely heard from her for months. The outside channels around Tango Five were secured for private military use only, out of fear the Covenant was eavesdropping. Lavernius would be left in the dark as to her whereabouts, only to rejoice when he heard her voice on a recording when it came._

_Eventually, the calls stopped coming, and his loving mother simply became a thing of the past. For many years, he would not know where she went, nor if she was to come back. As hard as Mr. Flowers tried, he could not find where Lena had gone, due to how secured Tango Five was. The darkness of the heart - which would claw at and wound Lavernius worse than any weapon or living thing - would be something that would remain with him for a long, long time.  
_


	6. Six: Birdbath

**- Six: Birdbath -  
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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale.)  
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_Night._

_It's not something everyone likes. It can be a haven for criminals, a hiding place for the bogeyman; in the Great War, the sounds of battle in pitch-black darkness could be terrifying. It is something that, for centuries, has been made out as the bringer of misfortune. Sarge was no different from those who shared this opinion, his time with the ODSTs rife with horrible memories of the nighttime._

_Tonight, however, he slept soundly, having come down with a cold and overworked himself fixing Red Base Apartments' electrical systems. One particular tenant found this a perfect opportunity to enjoy the dark instead of fearing it.  
_

_

* * *

_

All was quiet in the darkness of Blood Gulch, save for a buzz reminiscent of cicadas. Simmons had to watch his step to avoid spooking any of the glowbuzzers - noisy, cricket-like insects that lit up like fireflies, and which had a tendency to hop and screech like mad if a nest was disturbed. Thanks to his sensitive hearing and sharp eyes, the saurian alien was able to avoid the bush-ridden patches, the night aglow with the full moon of the planet. Had it not been for some geographic quirks and the odd alien wildlife, one could swear the planet was Earth herself. Perhaps that was why a majority of the Burnsburnians were Earth refugees - if they looked past the fact that some of the local birds had teeth, they could swear they were still in America, or Scotland, or Australia, or wherever they might be from.

The silver light of the moon was reflected like a mirror in a nearby pond. Created from an incident in which the sprinklers had been left on, it glowed ethereally in the noisy night. Simmons approached it in only a pair of heart-patterned boxers, looking carefully to the left and then to the right. If Sarge was to find him out "after curfew", then it would be army drills and toilet duty for weeks to come. If Grif found him, then blackmail material and jokes about bird hygiene would follow. Simmons gave a small click, satisfied with seeing no one out and about.

Stopping by the shore, the Skirmisher stretched, taking a moment to admire the view. He enjoyed Blood Gulch looking more lush than usual; it felt...more familiar to him. From what Sarge had told him, Jackals and Skirmishers came from a very humid, very tropical planet, so maybe it was his instincts calling to him. Whatever the cause, it made the alien's eyes distant as he became lost in thought.

A quick shake of the head snapped Simmons out of it. He could admire the view later - this was, practically, a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Stretching out one long, lanky leg, Simmons daintily dipped his toe in the water, resisting the urge to squawk. It was a bit cold, but not too cold, and he'd get used to the temperature difference soon enough. With one more quick, careful glance, he slowly waded into the pond until the water rose to his knees.

He cooed. He clucked. He fanned his tail out like a peacock and dove his head underwater. His mane sparkled silvery in the moonlight as he threw water on his back and neck with his head. His claws grabbed at the water, handfuls thrown on his armpits and sides, scrubbing as if he was in Red Base's shower. If he had been alone in the valley, he would have broken out into off-key birdsong, like some parrot trying to impress its owner. The pond was just right for the scaly skin beneath his plumage, and he could have been there all night.

Eventually, Simmons found himself breathless and soaked to the bone. He wandered back to shore, fluffing up and shaking himself dry as best he could. Taking a moment to admire the rippling waters of the Gulch Pond just a bit longer, the Skirmisher - grinning a toothy grin - clucked once more. Stretching out his legs and arms one last time, he quickly began a light jog back towards Red Base, making sure to dodge and lift his legs over the glowbuzzer nests he had mentally mapped out.


	7. Seven: Modern Day Bootleggers Part III

**- ****Seven: Modern-Day Bootleggers (Pt. III)**** -**

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**_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

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_Murphy's Law was a cruel, cruel mistress. Gravity was even more so as the Red Base soldiers were tossed about the room. _

_Simmons's armour had taken the brunt of the blow, but he still could feel the explosion rattling through his armour. Through the static of his in-helmet radio, he could hear Carrie screeching like a banshee, swearing an ungodly number of things as she fired off a shotgun. Grif's voice came through the radio, terrified and disoriented from the rocket going off, Sarge berating him._

_The last thing Simmons wanted to hear after that was an UNSC soldier yelling loudly at Sarge to drop his weapon. Carrie happily obliged Simmons's wish for the soldier to shut up, grabbing a Covenant plasma sword and thrusting it through the soldier's visor. Still, he could hear more of them coming, and growled and staggered to his feet. The small timber that laid across his back meant nothing thanks to the muscle Sarge had helped him build._

_

* * *

_

Michael Caboose had a tendency to go on tangents. Some of them made sense, and some of them didn't; his thought patterns had been off for a long time. A certain incident with a certain AI that his mother did not wish for him to talk about had made him, for lack of a better word, about as loopy and spontaneous as a ship's course flown by a drunk. Being with Sheila - one his mother's A.I.s - however, had the ability to make him more quiet than a mouse. Perhaps it was because Sheila was always a nice lady - unlike his sisters, she didn't have that "time of month" (whatever that was) to make her cranky, and she was always happy to answer questions. That, and she let him lean on her as long as he wanted.

"Sheila," asked Michael, "did you ever wonder if the clouds were made of muffins?"

"_My systems indicate that clouds are composed primarily of water vapour that comes from the atmosphere and various bodies of water,_" the _Pelican _replied. Despite Sarge's orders, she had a soft spot for the only male Caboose, and the gruff Sergeant wasn't around to see her little "infraction". _"I have never doubted the composition of the planet's clouds as a result."_

"Oh," said Michael. "That's nice."

Silence came between them, Michael staring out into the grasslands that gently swayed in the breeze. He wondered if Sheila could do the same - didn't the ship inside have a window she could look out of? Or was it dark and cramped where she was stuck, like a closet? Michael had always thought that AI ports were too cramped. His mother had yelled at him and smacked him over the head the time he had tried to make it bigger; how was Michael supposed to know shoving a wrench into a port could ruin it?

"Sheila, can you see in there?" Michael asked.

"_Yes_," replied the ship. _"My sensors allow me to perform a complete 360-degree scan of the entire area, with an effective range of up to 1.5 kilometres."_

"So can you see that bird over there?"

Sheila's sensors flickered to the northwest, lining up with a small patch of tall grass that Michael was pointing at. Sure enough, an oozlum skink - a four-winged, gliding, lizard-bird mix that used echolocation like a bat - was perched on a stalk. Its winged legs and fluffy tail grasped the stalk, the small claws on its winged arms allowing it to chomp down on a glowbuzzer cocoon. From what Sheila could see, it was a mature, adult female, indicated by the streak of red winding down its back, like blood on an otherwise white body.

"_That is not a true bird, Michael,_" said Sheila. "_That is an oozlum skink, _Oozluminus pax, _that resembles an Earth dinosaur in much of its physiology. It is named after the mythical British oozlum bird, which is said to be able to fly backwards and up its own - _"

A resounding _boom _echoed in the distance, followed by faint screams and smoke. Michael quickly stood up, recognizing the source of the explosion as from his own home. On Sheila's channels, Sarge's voice crackled through, gunfire and shouting mixed in.

_"_Pelican_, come in _Pelican_! We have a Situation Alpha, I repeat - Situation Alpha! Prepare for evac, stat!"_

"Oh no!" cried Michael. "Mommy must have blown up the muffins again! I'M COMING, MUFFINS!"

Sheila was too preoccupied with preparing for emergency lift-off to stop Michael. The eldest Caboose ran for his cabin, praying that his mother was okay and that the muffins were safe. He hoped she had made bran ones; those were always his favourite!

* * *

Simmons gracefully leapt unto the slice of timber, the edges smoldering and burning from the rocket's impact. He jogged up the piece and ducked beneath a jutting, sliced beam, quickly scanning the area left and right. Carrie was to his far right, and two of the soldiers were already down - she had a thing for headshots. To his left, Grif was grappling with another soldier, fighting desperately to hold onto his gun. Sarge had just kneed someone in the groin, only a few metres in front of Grif and enveloped in what looked to be a smoke bomb's cloud. Growling, Simmons knelt down and grabbed a Needler that had fallen off the ground, still with a few spikes left despite a premature fire. Why did guns always have to be so sensitive?

* * *

Sarge kicked the unlucky grunt's legs out from under him, using his trusty shotgun to fire a round into the middle of the man's visor. Kicking the body aside, he jumped and rolled out from the smoke, just in time to miss a few rounds from another soldier's rifle. Gritting his teeth, he pumped the shotgun, firing off another couple of rounds through at the target's shoulder. There was a loud bout of cursing, the man ducking and firing, and Sarge had to roll out of the way of oncoming fire. Another soldier had to abruptly stop, nearly tripping over the tumbling ex-ODST as he got out of the way.

Inwardly Sarge was swearing a mile a minute. How in the hell had they been busted? Had Carrie been getting careless again? That laser model couldn't just appear out of thin air; a weapon like that probably had come from somewhere important. Would she be insane enough to try and pinch something from the UNSC, though? She had looked too surprised by the explosion for that guess to be sound.

A UNSC-issued knife nearly embedded itself into the back of Sarge's skull; he swung around just in time to catch the arm of the one wielding it. A swift, trained kick to the groin, despite the armoured codpiece, quickly brought the soldier down just like another of his friends had. Another shotgun blast, this time to the neck, and the man was no more - a hit, finally! Seeing no others swarming him, Sarge quickly reset his suit's mute function, tapping into the private channel. _Thank God for Sheila's seven-layer encryption!_

"Maroon One, status report!" barked Sarge. The radio was fuzzy with static, and then Simmons's harsh voice came online.

"There's about three squads' worth, Sarge!" barked the Skirmisher. "Between you and Mrs. Caboose, about four or six kills!"

**_Bam! _**"AND DON'T YOU B*-)^#)/ TRY PUNCHING ME IN THE CHEST AGAIN!"

" ... Make that seven!"

* * *

Grif, seeing no other option, followed Sarge's example and kicked the soldier as hard as he could in the groin. The man yelped and fell, allowing Grif to stomp on his codpiece, followed by the poor soul getting a round in his belly. He squirmed and cried out, and Grif, panting, ran away as fast as he could. He lifted his gun and aimed again, _just_ managing to skim the shoulder of another enemy. Rolling for cover, Grif wheezed with smoker's lament, having one of the few moments where he was _mad _at his eating and tobacco habits. Who could imagine smoking almost a pack a day could do this to his breathing?

"Yellow Two, Yellow Two! Come in, Yellow Two - do you copy?"

Grif let out another gasp before accessing his radio. "Yellow ... Two ... here ... "

"For God's sake, man, mute your radio!" yelled Sarge. "There are hostiles all around us! What are you trying to do, sabotage us?"

Grif let out an, "Ugggh," before putting on his full-suit muting function. "Yellow Two ... mute activated. What's the situation... Sa - "

"GET OFF YOUR KEESTER AND HELP MAROON ONE, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" Sarge yelled, using his command voice combined with an impressive battlefield yell. "He's got four enemies on him! Were out-gunned six to one! Stop hidin' like a jackalope and move tail!"

"Yes, sir ... "

"I said _MOVE IT_, YELLOW TWO!"

* * *

Simmons chattered angrily inside his helmet, thankful for the fact his suit could block out all sounds. The UNSC red-shirt in front of him easily took the roundhouse kick, Simmons leaping in a roll to his right. However, the soldier was not down for long, firing after Simmons as the Skirmisher swerved around, grabbing a knife from the magnetic slide on his leg. With a great leap and an avian screech, he ran the blade towards the soldier's visor, but only managed to slice through the foe's shoulder. The blade, edge red with human blood, glinted as the Skirmisher aimed it at the soldier's face; the target had enough sense to jump back in a dodge despite his stinging wound.

With a sweep of his claw, Simmons grabbed a machine gun off the ground, fighting with the kick as he fired after the latest target. The model was shoddily put together, no better than the Archaic "Tommy gun" of hundreds of years past. After the war, resources such as metals had been particularly hard to find, and a lot of weapons seemed to be produced mainly from recycled materials. It was why Carrie was such an asset to Sarge; her stock was genuine, pre-war factory quality.

Which reminded Simmons - there was a Needler lying nearby. He dropped the machine gun, swearing as he nearly filled his foot with holes when it landed on the trigger. Picking up the infamous weapon - it was a shame there weren't more crystals in it - he fired at a man advancing on Carrie. The Skirmisher's aim was completely off, only surprising the soldier and making him stumble. The target cried out and dropped to the ground for cover, allowing Carrie to give him one of her infamous headshots ...

And failing, a honeycomb-like, transparent shield appearing around him. Carrie swore loudly and ducked to the side as two more soldiers rushed in. She fired madly with her shotgun, pelting the pair's legs with shells, allowing them to hit the ground and give her a chance to finish them off. The vicious blonde managed to blow out the duo's heads, but not while the other dropped his shield and circled around. Protected by the house, Carrie could not keep an eye on him, and she screeched in frustration.

"I COULD HAVE HAD THAT, YA F*&#(/!" the battle-hardened woman yelled, pumping her shotgun again. Simmons ignored her and ducked to the right, just as someone with a knife came swinging towards him.

_**Bam!**_

Just before Simmons could have his throat cut, a shotgun round blasted its way through the side of the soldier attacking him. The Skirmisher leapt over his foe, breaking into a quick sprint. Unfortunately, he was not paying attention, and the soldier who had circled around levelled his sights with the Skirmisher's torso. Finger curled around the trigger, the UNSC fighter fired, tongue curled back around part of his lip.

_**Bang!**_

"SCRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWK!"

The sound wasn't human - it was like the primal screech of some bird-lizard long lost, something only heard in the time of the dinosaurs. Yet, it was all too familiar, the wretched cry not unlike that of a Covenant Jackal's. As Simmons fell forward, the soldier's face twisted in fury, a burning hatred and boiling memory making him repeatedly fire at the Skirmisher's body.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU STUPID COVVIE!" **_Bang! _**"I BETCHA YOU -" **_Bam!_** "DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING - " **_Bang!_** _"NOW DID YOU!"_

Simmons managed to struggle to his feet in time to avoid most of the shots. His shields had taken the brunt of the damage, but it had been a chest shot, and boy had it _hurt_. Moments later, Carrie had taken out the soldier, although more were swarming around their comrade. They all levelled their sights at Simmons, struck with such a fury at a _Jackal _being in their midst -

"Maroon One! Yellow Two!" barked Sarge over the radio. "We're bugging out! Back to Sheila, double-time!"

* * *

Grif was thankful a thousand times over that they were retreating. With an awkward punch to the face of the soldier he'd been grappling with, Yellow Two turned and fled. He heaved ungracefully in his suit - ever since the war had ended, he'd let go of himself, and wasn't as in tip-top shape as he used to be. Then again, even in the army, he hadn't been the prime example of the ideal soldier's body -

"OH NO YOU DON'T!"

Grif gave a yelp as something punched him in the stomach with almost superhuman force. Even with his shields, he still felt it rattle through his ribcage and spine, and was further winded when he was knocked onto his back. A shotgun pumped into his face, clacking against the visor of his helmet as Carrie Caboose stared murderously down at him.

"You started this mess," she snarled, before giving a dainty, lady-like laugh. Grif felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Now, since your little Sargey isn't going to clean it up, I'm just going to blow your brains out now and - OOMPH!"

"Yellow Two, get your *&# in gear!" barked Sarge. "I'll deal with Carrie!"

"RARGH!" went the crazed woman, lunging upwards from the ground and grabbing Sarge in a chokehold. She tackled the man to the ground, despite his super-powered armour, and immediately tried to either strangle him or snap his neck. Grif was pealing across the field in front of Carrie's house by the time she was grappling with the older man.

* * *

"WHERE IS MY SHIP!" roared Carrie. "YOU B*#&*)#! YOU BROUGHT THEM HERE TO DISTRACT ME, DIDN'T YOU!"

Sarge gurgled slightly from her iron grip. His suit was useless against her; the program had tampered with her too much, made her too strong. It was why he never liked people like her - they were loose cannons just ready to become insubordinate. The UNSC should have made sure to kill her. "I-I never ... did ... such a - _hrk_!"

"You even brought a COVVIE HERE!" she added, twisting her hands and desperately trying to crush Sarge's windpipe. "YOU LIAR! _YOU LIAR!_ JUST DIE ALREADY! DIE! DIEDIEIDIEDIE - "

Simmons made sure to kick extra hard when his foot lifted Carrie off of Sarge. The woman grunted, cursing thickly, and the Skirmisher dragged his superior to his feet. The two then took off, Carrie glaring murderously from between strands of her blonde hair. Immediately she grabbed her shotgun, levelling it with Simmons's head.

**_Bang!_**

She never got a chance to fire. From somewhere behind her, a round fired, slamming straight into the middle of her back. The crack of bone and the zip of the bullet as it plowed through her torso was as audible as an Earth-cricket on a summer night.

**_

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_**

_Author's Note: I realize there are a few continuity errors in the AU, mostly relating to the handling of species in Halo canon. Skirmishers, unlike I first believed, are not subspecies of Kig-Yar; they are a phenotype variant, if I am correct. H__owever, these mistakes have given me a lovely idea for a future series in this collection, but I don't wish to spoil anything for future reading. :D_


	8. Eight: Feathered Relics

**- Eight: Feathered Relics -**

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_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language. This chapter has some mature references.)_**  
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_Sarge was not a man of favours. He was a firm believer in "an eye for an eye_", _and **always **expected someone to pick up their end of the bargain. Grif was not a tenant just because; he was expected to work, and despite being a lazy pile of fat with smoker's lungs, he had his own brand of intelligence. Simmons was quick, lithe and cunning - he'd be a real S.O.B. if Sarge hadn't raised him to be such a good subordinate. Sheila paid her due in self-repairs, scans and acting as a general security system, always on the radio with Sarge when she picked up something._

_That entire belief was thrown out the window when an old friend tracked him down._

_

* * *

_

Grif sighed, tired from a long day of ... well, Sarge wasn't quite sure, but it had something to do with him "going on a hike". (Unlikely, considering how Grif's first reaction to work was to lie down and fall asleep.) Simmons stood quietly, waiting for the next order; both were decked out in full Red Base attire. Sarge had insisted that they "look good for company", and Grif couldn't help but entertain the thought that Sarge had a special someone. The joke he had let slip while Sarge was in another room earlier earned him a good, swift kick from Simmons.

In the distance, a dropship of some kind was heading straight for Blood Gulch, Sheila prattling off on their radios that it was some sort of civilian ship. Sarge was oddly quiet himself, save for a loud, "Soldiers! Atten-HUT!" when the ship finally landed. Grif looked oddly at Sarge as he tensed; the man looked like he was waiting for some long-lost CO to come and inspect the troops. Again, an obligatory "special someone" joke popped up in Grif's head, but he managed to keep it to himself.

The ship's door hissed open and slowly, gracefully placed itself on the ground. Out stepped a battle-scarred, older-looking man, face weather-worn and with a jagged scar cutting through his left eye. The milky whiteness of that eye showed the wound had blinded him, and he had to look around before realizing Sarge was on his left side. Jumping down from the ramp the ship's door had formed, the gentleman walked forward, grinning as Sarge removed his helmet.

"Long time no see, Christofferson!" the fellow said, laughing as he and Sarge shook hands roughly. "You look well and stressed, as usual."

"And you look like a broad shoved one of your lockpicks into your face ... what is it that you go by now? York?" asked Sarge. York nodded with an "mhm-hm" of confirming.

"Yep. Doesn't seem right not using my codeword; I've been in this d*#$*( business too long, and Delta won't stop calling me that."

"Delta?" asked Sarge, furrowing his eyebrows. "You still have yours?"

"Relax, Christofferson," said York. "D is perfectly harmless, you know that. He specialized in tactics and information gathering/decoding; he's programmed to be logical and helpful to a fault. Not like that crazy b*/^# they stuck with Carolina, or Tex's A.I. ... now _that_ was a real f(*#$*. Say, how is 'Lina?"

York's face seemed to lighten at his other friend's codename. Sarge's face nearly fell, but he managed to keep his expression cheerful; he couldn't tell York. The two of them had been ... close, or at least as close as that ripoff of a SPARTAN program would let them be. It didn't help that Sarge owed York a few more favours than he was comfortable talking about.

"I'm not sure about Carolina," said Sarge. "Last I heard, she packed up her lot and was heading for another colony. I haven't heard from the little hellcat in months."

York's expression itself fell slightly, but he managed to keep face. He'd been hoping to catch up with Carolina - the woman had gone to great pains to hide herself and her family after falling out with the UNSC. It was one thing to commit friendly fire, even under the influence of a rogue A.I.; it was entirely another thing to fake one's death, desert, and then drag an entire family to some backwater, uncontrolled colony. How Carolina had done it, York wasn't so sure, but she had always been one of the craftier agents. Only Maine could beat her in creativity whenever a prank war or mass hazing broke out.

"So what have you got for me, York?" asked Sarge, turning towards the ship. "Now, I don't mind live cargo, but are you _sure _I'm not going to have some sort of official on my tail, going on and on about some s*&# involving 'introduced species' or whatever the hell gets them in a knot?"

"I don't think you'll have any problems here, Christofferson," said York. "These guys are practically a relic; I paid good money to get them off the market. You make this work, and you'll have environmentalists, scientists, biologists ... basically any of those 'tree-hugger hippie types' that drive you insane just _begging _for a specimen."

The pair walked into the ship, where squawking and cawing of some sort could be heard from within. Instinctively, Simmons could tell it was some sort of bird or bird-like animal; what exactly was there, however, didn't sound like anything he had heard of before. There was the sound of a cage opening, Sarge going, "Whoa now!" as something ran past him -

_"Scrawk!"_

"_Nyaah_-ah!" went Grif as several tall, grey birds ran past him, looking like an ostrich with some sort of purple crest on their heads. There were seven in total, with the first one that ran out the largest. They quickly scattered all over Blood Gulch, Sarge watching fondly as they stretched their legs. A few stopped to squawk and call out, curious and a little disoriented in their new, lush home.

"Hehehe ... now that's a sight for sore eyes," said Sarge. "I haven't seen a moa since Reach. How'd you find the little b#^*/)&*, York?"

"Several of the survivors raised moas for meat," said York. "Moa burgers were a bit of a delicacy on Reach. Some of them managed to smuggle their stock onto transport ships, and were keeping them on some of the other colonies. Rumour has it that the UNSC is paying them to raise the moas as 'living relics', to keep Reach from being forgotten. I would have brought you a gueta pair, too - "

"Ah no no, let's not talk about the gueta," said Sarge with a fond chuckle. "I remember what happened the time you convinced me to try and ride one. That s*/# was _crazy_."

"Yeah, well you're crazy," said York, giving Sarge a teasing punch. "If I remember correctly, you jumped on without a second thought."

"I was young. And stupid. The CO wasn't happy when I had to explain what happened to his new Warthog - GRIF! What in hell are you doing, boy?"

Grif jumped backwards, startling the moa that he had been trying to sneak up on. The bird quickly turned, squawking in surprise and giving a sharp kick. Both York and Sarge winced as the blow landed on Grif's crotch, the yellow-clad ex-soldier crying out and falling to the ground. Not even shields could lessen the pain of a low blow.

"That's going to leave a mark ... " said York.

"Yeah, well, he deserves it," said Sarge. "He's lazy and none too bright, anyhow. SIMMONS!"

"Yes sir?"

"Go grab the idiot and take him back to the base before he kills himself. I've got business to discuss!"

"Yes sir!" cried the Skirmisher, running over and hauling Grif to his feet. Once the two had returned to the base, Sarge turned and looked at his old friend.

"Ignore the moron, I won't let him do anything with the flock. They'll start laying eggs by next spring, right?"

"That's how it should work," said York. "Ádám and Noé are the dominant males, and there's five other females they'll service without issue; you should have a full set of eggs by spring. You'll have to contact that me when it happens, since they'll get aggressive with any male chicks - there's a pecking order there to keep inbreeding from happening."

"Reminds me of the fathers back home."

"Really? I thought hicks weren't picky when it came to the broads."

Sarge punched York in the arm again, this time a little harder. His friend let out a yelp, but laughed, saying, "Okay, okay ... no more hick jokes, I'm starting to sound like Reggie. Where was I? Oh yeah - if there's any male chicks, you'll have to have someone go and get them after a couple of months, to keep the flock in balance. Make sure to grab a few of the female young, too. I'll go through my contacts, make a pretty penny pawning off the young and we'll split the profits evenly. You happy?"

"Anything for you, York," said Sarge, placing a friendly arm around the ex-Freelancer. "I still owe you a million times over for what you did for me on Reach."

"I know you'd do the same."


	9. Nine: Calling Out

**- Nine: Calling Out -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

_Dexter Grif wasn't much of the athletic type. He had barely passed all of his physical exams in the UNSC; too many packets of cigarettes and too many doughnuts snuck out from the mess hall had done a number on him. The ex-soldier had a talent for disappearing whenever there were drills, and whenever his superiors found him, it was usually when he was hiding on the roof or in the toilets. Grif always found it a pain when they took away his more dubious magazines - he was a soldier, he deserved a little release here and there - and the make-up punishments nearly killed him. In fact, Grif had even had a heart attack out on the track once, after a hundred laps left him wheezing and with burning legs._

_But that time, he had good reason to scale the ... incredibly high and dangerous cliff's side, a waterfall spewing more gallons of water per second than what Grif liked to think about. (That is, when he did think about water; usually it was in the context of watering down beer enough that Sarge wouldn't notice it was beer. He was stingy about alcohol, despite the fact that **they weren't in the army anymore**.)_

_

* * *

_Grif felt like his heart was about to stop. No, scratch that - that his heart was going to stop, his arms were going to fall off, and everything in his digestive system before his small intestine was going to be coughed up. He swallowed back something acidic, gritting his teeth and reaching upwards, blinking back tears of exertion. Yes, Sarge would have called him a pansy, but at least Grif was scaling the d#*& thing like a man.

During such times of stress, it was force of habit for Grif to want someone more capable to do the job for him. Alas, Sarge was busy trying to perfect Blood Gulch's wiring, and his neck was so bruised from Carrie's attack, he couldn't turn his head properly. Such a fact meant that Simmons, his pet bird-thing from hell, would be using his naturally flexible body to squeeze into impossibly small spaces to get at a loose wire. Simmons wouldn't have been able to scale the cliffs anyways; though his shields had saved him from most of the gunfire at their last job, part of the suit had been badly damaged by stray bullets. Being sycophantic enough to be "the meat shield" led to the damaged parts shorting out spectacularly on the ship. Simmons had been dizzy from electrocution for three days, and there was a borderline third-degree burn that had scorched most of his left thigh. The mutant chicken hadn't stopped mentioning it - or rather, complaining about it like a baby - unless Sarge threatened to shoot his head off.

Grif yelped as a rock slid out from under his hand. The stone clattered, clacked and knocked a few pebbles loose as it fell down the steep slopes Grif had just ascended. He gulped, forcing himself to look back up, thinking hard to himself that he was not several hundred feet up. And no, those crow...like...things probably didn't think he'd be delicious, splattered like a loose pancake on the ground below, frying on the stones in the hot summer sun -

_NO! Think happy thoughts! _he yelled inwardly. _Hot babes ... oh yeah, hot babes ... no, too distracting! Uhhh ... cream cakes? Yeah, cream cakes ...  
_

He reached upwards with a shaky hand, searching for a handhold.

_Especially double fudge. I. **Love.** Double fudge. Although that b(&$#*& Simmons enjoys them too; why should he? He eats like a freakin' celebrity on a diet, all dainty and poking at his food. Pansy. I bet **he **couldn't win an eating contest to save his life _-

_"Caw!"_

What looked like a cross between a crow and a small dragon dove down at Grif, snapping angrily at his hair with a toothy beak. The soldier yelped, one half of himself swinging to the side, his back now against the cliff as he stared at the ground below. More rocks slid out from under his foot and hand; _Grab the cliff, grab the cliff, GRAB THE F&^#$*^# CLIFF!_

With a small, "Nyah!" of panic, Grif managed to swing himself back around and find his footing. He was white as a sheet, his eyes focused on the crow-thing and the crow-thing only as it circled back around. The creature cawed ominously, four taloned feet stretching out so that it could land daintily on a nearby outcropping. As soon as Grif's panic waned, he glared bloody murder at the creature, muttering a few choice words as he set out to climb again.

_Stupid __f&^#$*^# freak-birds and their stupid __f&^#$*^# meddling and their stupid f__&^#$*^# - _"HEY!"

"_Caw!_" went the crow-thing again, landing on the opposite outcropping after swiping its little claws across Grif's scalp. _"Caw caw!"_

"Yeah, yeah, nevermore nevermore ... " muttered Grif irritably, reaching up with another hand. Sure enough, the crow-thing launched itself at Grif again -

_Shmuck! _A well-aimed punch slammed the beast into the cliff face, just before it could ram into Grif's face again. Its neck snapped like a twig as Grif's knuckles pushed inward, and the corpse tumbled to the ground below, leaving a purplish smear where it had been killed. Grif grinned, but then looked at the coppery-scented purple on his hand, and muttered a quiet, "Ew." Shaking off his hand, the man continued to climb.

_"CAAAAAAAW ... ! CAAAAAAAAW ... !"_

Grif stiffened. _Oh, **hell no** ..._

_**"CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!"**_

"JESUS CHR_IIIIIII-ST-ST-ST_ ... !"

From the top of the base far below, Simmons and Sarge lifted their heads, wondering where the yelp had come from. The vicious cawing also was a bit startling, and the pair quickly turned their heads to look at the nearby cliffs.

"Well what do you know," said Sarge, lifting his eyebrows at the giant, croaking black cloud that had materialized around a nearby outcropping. "There's a corbie nest over there. We should take care of it."

"I'll add it to the list, sir, along with painting the base's interior and getting a new refrigerator."

"Excellent, Simmons! I always counted on you to keep a keen memory. Pass me that electrical tape, will you?"

* * *

Half an hour and many thrown punches later, Grif was finally at the top of the waterfall, covered in slashes, bite marks and scratches. Corbies, as he had just found out, were vicious little beasts when someone approached their nests. The closest thing that part of the planet had to crows, they were known scavengers, but preferred to hunt and packs and kill everything they could eat. Grif made a mental note to plant some sort of bomb on the cliff face when he was done with it.

Taking a moment to catch his breath on the grassy summit, Grif rubbed at his hands, the fingers red and scratched despite the war-born callouses that adorned them. The last of the corbies flocked to their nests, waiting patiently for Grif to come back down. Grif, peeking over the edge, gave them a look before getting to his feet, still huffing and sweating like a pig. What looked to be Simmons's distant cousins could go to hell; the ex-soldier had more important things to do.

For five minutes, Grif walked around, seemingly surveying the top of the cliff. When he was sure that he was alone, that no more corbies would try and gouge his eyes out and that there didn't seem to be any storm clouds, he stopped. Turning, he walked towards a small, thick patch of wildflowers and grass, the blades waving gently in the wind that had picked up, one could see a small, silvery glint. It was a metal rod of some sort, attached to a base deeper within the plant life. Grif's hands gingerly moved the foliage aside, handing that same base as soon as they reached down as if he was handling a wounded bird.

Grif might have been lazy, but he was not stupid. Thinking just tired him out most of the time; indulging in mindless pleasures like food, cigarettes and "tasteless" magazines helped lessen the mental strain. Before the war had become dire enough that conscripts were needed, there were other responsibilities - probably to Simmons and Sarge's amusement - that he had taken care of. One such responsibility was probably drifting around in space somewhere, constantly looking for another man to spoil her or something to get high of off. She was the bane of his existence, and yet, she was the only family Grif had; their mother had abandoned them at a young age because of financial issues.

Kaikaina Grif hadn't been heard from since Dexter had been sent to war. He had made her promise to take care of herself, to flee Earth if the Covenant managed to breach the Inner Colonies. He had also made her write to him, just to make sure she was okay, and that nobody was giving her trouble while Grif was off blowing aliens to pieces. None of these promises were kept - Kaikaina, as usual, had run off with some boy and never looked back.

Now, however, that would change. Grif, whenever Sarge would allow him in Burnsburnia, had been asking around. Countless "refugee ships" floated in space, travelling from planet to planet with homeless survivors of the Great War. In their particular corner of space, there were as many of those ships floating around as there was debris floating in the junk field around Earth. Finding passenger lists was not easy, as many of the ships were ... not exactly the best thing around in the eyes of the UNSC. Criminals, pirates, smugglers and various other folk of ill repute were known to take payment from those needing a place to go.

Once again checking to make sure he wasn't being watched, Grif pulled the small radio out from its hiding place. Save for a couple of bird-like droppings on the base, it didn't seem to have suffered any damage since he checked last. Fiddling around with the knobs, he tuned in to the open channel that was tapped into the various ships circling the planet. Sarge wouldn't notice that his radio had a few loose wires; the man had a mountain of work to do on the base, and it wasn't like the radio was _busy_. The only time it came to life non-stop was when Sarge was organizing runs, and that hadn't happened since he had planned out the ill-fated stop at Carrie Caboose's. Placing the makeshift headset into his ears - it was amazing what he could do with some spare wire and a pair of wireless earphones - Grif picked up the microphone he had fashioned out of a mint tin and more earphones.

"Calling all refugee-carrying ships, come in refugee-carrying ships," said Grif. "This is D. Grif of Blood Gulch Valley, just outside of colony Burnsburnia, planet Saldana. I'm looking for a Kaikaina Grif - female, twenties, freckled, Caucasian and strawberry blonde. She is my sister and I have been searching for her since the war ended. If a Kaikaina Grif is on your passenger list, please respond. I repeat, if a Kaikaina Grif is on your passenger list, please respond."

Static came in over the channels, mixed in with the odd bit of interference. That was all Grif had received for weeks, the radio's abyss silent and fragmented-sounding. Grif remained quiet, praying that this time someone would answer. He needed to see his sister again; she needed him. She wouldn't survive on her own - she threw herself into any situation where she could get a high. It was a miracle she had even survived to see Grif conscripted.

"Calling all refugee-carrying ships, come in refugee-carrying ships," repeated Grif. "This is D. Grif, searching for a Kaikaina Grif. Description is female, twenties, freckled, Caucasian and strawberry blonde. Please respond if you have a match; I repeat, please respond if you have a match."

And still, there was nothing.


	10. Ten: The Wake

**- Ten: The Wake -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

The corbies croaked and cawed in indulgence, toothed beaks laden with gore. They feasted like gods on the fallen, sharp teeth making short work of skin and bone to get at the juicy tissues beneath and within. Their black bodies littered the ground, scurrying about like feathered rats, occasionally fighting with each other for a tender piece of meat.

_"MOM!"_

The screech made the creatures perk their heads, cawing indignantly and launching into the air as the second-oldest Caboose ran to her mother. A few hovered and snapped angrily, not wanting to waste a perfectly good meal, but a swift backhand toward them quickly ceased their protest. Those that remained hopped over to the other corpses, continuing to pull and tear off bits as the remaining Cabooses ran back home.

Michaela Caboose frantically shook her mother's body. She was shaking, the otherwise tough, tomboyish young lady's eyes growing wet. "Mom! MOM! Mom, get up!" she cried, searching for something - anything - in her mother's glazed-over eyes. "Get up! Come on, Mom! _MOM!_"

"MOM!" cried Michelle, struggling to keep pace with her sister. However, her pace grew quicker as she saw Michaela trying to wake their mother. "MOM! What's wrong? Mom?"

Lavernius was the last to get to the remains of the Caboose house, which was now smoking and crackling from a fire in the storage cellar. He had slowed as he approached, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. The standard-issue armour of the UNSC was unmistakable, and heavy footprints from their built-in, titanium-toed boots were everywhere. There was a trail leading away from the carnage as well, not too far from where Carrie lay unresponsive. Looking around, he realized with cold horror that the rest of the younger Cabooses were nowhere in sight.

"_MICHI!_" screamed Lavernius, running full-tilt past the sobbing sisters and to where the battle had taken place. "MICA! MEEKAEL! YOU HERE?_ MICKEY? _Oh, Jesus ... _MICHA! MIKEY! _Michaela, Michelle, get up! Where's your sisters?"

"Th-they were in th-the house ... " sobbed Michelle, white as a sheet as she gently laid her hands on her mother. "C'mon, Mom ... we gotta find the babies ... "

"Forget Mom!" cried Lavernius, running towards the smouldering house. "We have to make sure the others are okay! She's dead, Michelle!"

* * *

_I just ... wanted to help Mom with the muffins ..._

In the tall grasses far beyond the house, Michael Caboose lay curled in a ball. Blood smeared the exposed side of his head like a bad paint job, splattered onto the hem of his blue plaid, cotton shirt. His lower back was stained with a wide streak of red, a deep wound on one side and thinning as it scraped the spine on the way to the right. Numerous bruises also covered his body, and his blue eyes matched the swelling, blackened circles around them. The centre of his face oozed blood from a broken nose, and his eyes were so puffy, he could barely see.

_Where is Sheila? _Michael wondered faintly, his eyes moving upwards to look up at the slowly-darkening sky. _I thought she would stay a bit longer ... I like Sheila ... And muffins ..._

_Shwish, shwip, **crack** _went the nearby foliage. Michael managed to open his eyes a little wider at the sudden sound.

"... M-Michael?"

Slowly, Michael turned his head towards the timid voice. A small, blurry figure with his eyes and hair stood not too far from him, looking wary. She was breathing heavily, as if she had been running, and one knee was all red too. She must have somehow hurt herself while playing out in the fields. "... Mica?"

"MICHAEL!"

Michael winced, both at her shrill voice and at how she plowed into him in a tight, frightened embrace. Mica sobbed, clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly, her wails like a siren's in the otherwise quiet evening. Screwing his eyes shut, Michael said softly, "Mica ... " as he weakly placed a hand on her back. "Mica ... stop cr-crying ... you're hurting my head ... "

"M-M-Michael ... " Mica sniffed. Her youthful, round cheeks were flustered and wet; Michael hated seeing her cry. She was cute as a button, just like their mother when she was a baby girl too. "S-something ... s-something h-happened to Mom ... th-there were s-soldiers ... "

"Where's ... Mama?" Michael asked, trying to focus in on his sister as his vision began to swim. "Where ... where's Tucker ... and th'girls ... "

Mica only cried harder.

* * *

The cabin was an absolute mess. Bullet holes and scorch marks made for grim decor, the bodies of slain soldiers splattering blood like paint. Lavernius almost slipped on the fluid gore that oozed out of them, slamming his feet up the creaking, broken stairs that led to the upper floors. Timbers creaked, threatening to give, but Lavernius's mind was on a single track. Danger was forgot as he jumped across a part of the floor threatening to give, making it to the youngest of the girls' rooms.

Or at least, what _had _been their room. The entire place had caved in, and he could see the sky in-between scorched pieces of wood. Even worse was that nauseating smell, familiar and horrifying at the same time - cooked meat. Only, instead of the warm, welcoming smell of a baked turkey or chicken, it was the reek of human flesh. Lavernius gagged, but quickly composed himself as he heard either Michelle or Michaela come in below.

"LAVERNIUS!"

"UP HERE!" yelled the adolescent. "DON'T COME UP HERE! THE FLOOR'S TOO WEAK!" That, and he didn't want Michaela to see ... anything bad. Her room looked better as he peeked in, but it was completely ripped apart - comic books, toys and sheets were torn and stained. Lavernius ran in, searching frantically for any more survivors.

"GIRLS! Girls! Girls, where'd ya go?"

" ... Vern?"

Meekael's soft, shy voice came out from the nearby closet door. The door banged open as Lavernius threw it open haphazardly, Meekael staring up at him with tired, teary eyes. Her left arm was covered in a waxy burn, winding up from the hand right up to the shoulder. Lavernius stared helplessly.

"Meek!" he cried after a moment of standing, ramrod-stiff in shock. His arms wrapped around the girl tightly, protectively, and he scooped her out bridal-style. "Meekael, hold on! Your sisters are here, we'll get you some help!"

"Lotsa people ... " the girl murmured quietly, looking as if she were about to sleep. "Lotsa noise ... where'd Mama go ... ?"

"Meek, where's the others?" asked Lavernius, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he rushed towards the door. "Michi? Mickey? Anyone?"

"In the room ... " muttered Meekael. "They're stuck, Vern ... they can't get out ... "

"I'll dig them out, don't you worry," said Tucker quickly, heading for the staircase. By how much the floor was groaning in protest, he didn't have much time left before it went. How the hell had the soldiers been able to do so much damage? What had they called in, a bombing run? "Hold on, your big sisters are here. MICHELLE! MICHAELA!"

* * *

Michelle and Michaela held their sister, still sobbing as they stood outside their house. Despite their best efforts, they had found no other survivors, and some parts of the house were too rubble-stricken to be navigated. The entire cabin looked ready to cave in by then, and to try and dig through the weakened structure would be folly. With some clothes and non-perishables scavenged from the remains, the small group - Michaela carrying Meekael because the latter hurting badly - tried to centre themselves and think.

"W-we could go see M-Mr. Doc," said Michelle, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand. "H-he always s-said we could g-go to h-him if s-something was wr-wr-wrong ... "

"B-but we need to find Michael too," said Michaela, taking a breath. "Or s-see if any of the g-girls managed to r-run. W-we c-can't s-split up ... "

"You won't have to," said Lavernius, voice firm yet quiet. He was trying to put on a brave face for the girls, but it was _hard_ - he hadn't felt such a sense of loss since the war went on. "I'm taking you two to Doc's, and then, I'm coming back out here. Knowing the girls, _some_ of them had to get away. They were always trying to run around under my feet when I had to round them up, remember?"

He forced a cocky smile. The girls nodded, but still looked sullen. Meekael looked to be sleeping peacefully, slumped against her eldest sister's chest.

* * *

_It had been one of the few times he had ever called Carrie Caboose "Mom". The woman was more of a employer than a guardian, offering him shelter in exchange for being the big brother to her brood. Still, he had grown deeply attached, and had gladly accepted the generosity - if not a firm and uneasy sort of generosity at times - from the woman. She had ... issues. Lavernius understood, or at least tried to when Carrie was really, really "out there"._

_He had grown weary of the UNSC even before the incident. It had taken his mother, it swirled with rumours of heavy-handed tactics to keep peace during the war, and Lavernius had had certain run-ins with its personnel. After the death of most of the Caboose family, however, weariness turned to anger. In that anger, a white-hot spark of hatred was lit. The inevitable bonfire raged.  
_

_That fire, in time, would also aim itself for the inhabitants of Red Base Apartments. They had left Carrie to try and fend her cabin by herself, after all.  
_


	11. Eleven: That Thing You Love

**- Eleven: That Thing You Love -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

_He levelled his shotgun with the creature's head. She glared back at him with bulbous eyes, dangerous and angry. His own narrowed, his comrades beside him, the Covvie wretch outnumbered. Not even threatening her children would make her flinch._

_"I'll ask nicely, one last time," said Sarge as he flipped off the safety. **"Where did you get the ship from?"**_

_He never got his answer. He got a fight, and he did what he had to do. He would do what he had to do with Simmons, as well; the shotgun's barrel was focused in on the forehead of the young Skirmisher._

_"Don't make me hurt you, Private."_

_

* * *

_If the war had lasted, he would have been a weapon. A perfect mole into Jackal culture and politics, the bloodthirsty savages completely unaware. He was a smart kid, and he took to military doctrine like a fish to water. Polished, obedient, the ex-ODST's pride and joy, a legacy that would follow feet first into hell. Sarge counted on the kid to watch his six, the mutant little crap one of his greatest successes.

They called Simmons a thing. Sarge didn't blame them; they called his shotgun a thing, too. Yet, when they were all cowering, ducking and covering, he was out there with his beauty, blasting the night away. So many skulls blown apart, so many Covvies driven back, the thrill of the hunt making him wolfish with joy. He could see that same want in Simmons's eyes, too - his species was naturally aggressive. The Skirmisher still growled and snapped at things he didn't like, and his angry eyes were harsh and glimmering. They were kin, father and son, and they both chased down anything they didn't like. A recent pair of thieves who had gone after the moa flock had been swiftly taken care of by Simmons.

But Sarge never let his guard down. Simmons was an adult, but he still had his own recklessness, his own defiance. He was loyal as a dog, but even dogs tired of being yanked around, digging their feet in eventually. A shotgun pointing and a loaded threat were enough to get him on the move, but Sarge was never sure. His mother had been a defiant b!&^# to the end, not fazed one bit by a squad of elite soldiers surrounding her. That streak of stubbornness would not exist as long as Simmons was still under Sarge's thumb.

Was there any parental love from Sarge? In a twisted, militaristic sort of way, yes. Sarge would gladly beat down anyone who tried to tear apart Simmons. He couldn't turn on his adopted son without proof - it should have been obvious that the Skirmisher was a valuable asset. A rare breed of alien, swift and stronger than most, feared by fighters on Reach for their ruthless pack tactics. Besides, the two had lived together long enough, bonded, and trusted each other with their greatest secrets. There were many things about the UNSC that Sarge had told Simmons - things that, in another time or place, would have had Sarge killed. But the Skirmisher's lips (if they could be called that) were sealed, and Sarge wouldn't have it any other way.

Perhaps one might be jinxing it if they asked how long that might last. With a bloodlust that could eclipse common sense, added to a love for force that could be destructive, Sarge could be a ticking time bomb. When his temper flared, his bark was as weak as thin ice compared to what bite he had. He could be sadistic, inflicting as much pain as possible if angered enough, and his trigger finger twitched at so much as an insult. At least, that's what the "thing" he loved thought - but Simmons would never voice this. He had enough problems to deal with because of Grif, the base, and the recent run-ins with the UNSC.


	12. Twelve: Encounter

**- Twelve: Encounter -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language. Church/Tex is present in this chapter.)_

* * *

He didn't know whether it was the sun, wishful thinking, or a hallucination caused by eating something bad in the fridge.

She stood across from him, washing the dirtied fabric in the running water. The river was wide, rushing, roaring, sparkling like her blue eyes. He dropped the net he had been carrying, his orders to "find something decent for lunch" forgot for the moment. Grif couldn't take his eyes off of her ...

She moved her head, allowing Grif a better look. His heart sank like a rock - those blue eyes were, instead, green, only made blue by bad lighting and sore memories. Her hair was too shockingly red to be Sister's lighter ginger, and her face looked too square as well. She didn't even have Sister's trademark braided pigtails - her hair was roughly chopped, military-style almost.

"Hey! The hell you lookin' at?"

Grif snapped out of his reverie at a man's annoyed voice. He was the one with blue eyes there, hair jet black, a five o' clock shadow to boot. He hovered protectively over the redhead, who was also glaring suspiciously. "You have some business with me and my girlfriend?"

"N-no!" said Grif, holding up his hands in surrender. "She just reminded me of something! Jeez, what the hell's your problem!"

"Lay off, a^%(#$*!" the black-haired man barked. "You're the one who couldn't keep his eyes straight ahead!" Gingerly, he bent down and helped his so-called "girlfriend" up. (_Doesn't even look like my type,_ Grif thought irritably.) "C'mon Tex, let's go farther downstream."

The woman didn't argue. Instead, she kept glaring venomously at Grif, and did not break her stare as she gathered up her laundry. The only time she swung her head back around was when she and her boyfriend were as far from Grif as possible. Grif wrinkled his nose, grumbling something obscene as he picked back up his fishing net.

_The people around here, I **swear** ...  
_


	13. Thirteen: Grif Versus the Moa

**- Thirteen: Grif Versus the Moa -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

The moa stared, its beady little eyes intense, wicked, as he pawed at the ground nearby. Grif stared back, flexing his one free hand, the other gripped tightly around a tube of dewormer, stance ready for a spring. The flock was due for its monthly parasite preventative, and so far, everyone had managed to be wrestled to the ground and force-fed their medicine. Everyone, that is, except for the one male Noé, who was proving to be especially defiant and aggressive.

"You and me, pal ... " Grif muttered through gritted teeth. "You ... and ... _me_."

The two stared at each other for a few moments longer. Then, with a great, wailing battle cry, he ran wildly with flailing arms towards Noé. Noé gave a cry of his own and ran in the other direction, sending clods of dirt into Grif's face as he ran. The hefty soldier huffed and spluttered as he was whacked with dirt, the odd, "SON OF A B&^#)!" echoing across the valley. From another hill, upon a lonesome boulder, Simmons and Sarge watched, amused.

"How long do you think before the moa kills him?" asked Sarge, chewing on a piece of wild grain.

"I'll give him fifteen minutes, maybe less considering how close he is to heart failure," said the Skirmisher. In the distance, Grif had circled around, and just as Noé ground to a halt at the bottom of a hill, he barely managed to dodge Grif leaping out at his blind spot. The moa took off down the little gully between hills, and Grif swore and hurried after him, turning red as a cherry as he tried to ascend another hill to literally get the jump on Noé. Sarge rose his eyebrows.

"He's going to kill himself with the acrobatics."

"I'm betting that the bird will break his neck first if they run into each other."

"_YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!_" cried Grif as he tried to leapt upon the wayward male, the bird-like alien squawking and putting on another burst of speed. Grif only faceplanted into the dirt and tumbled down the hill, not even jumping far enough to tackle his target. Again he was spitting dirt, standing back up in a huff, barely able to get a breath in without wheezing. He tried to run again, Noé this time running up a hill to try and slow down Grif. It worked, the Hawaiian-born soldier managing only a few metres up the incline before tipping backwards and showing off his smoker's lungs. Sarge chuckled, and Simmons could only roll his eyes.

"And that's why a baker's dozen isn't thirty-eight doughnuts," said the old veteran.

"Did somebody say my name?" came a cheery, pitchy voice from somewhere behind him and Simmons.


	14. Fourteen: Hatred

**- Fourteen: Hatred -**

* * *

_(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)_

* * *

She hadn't survived the night.

No matter what that imbecile peacenik, that idiotic f&^% of a quack had done, he hadn't saved her. He said he tried, and in the sombre light of the morning, he had broke the news that Meekael had flatlined. He had tried to pump her heart, but her body was too battered and had suffered too much from shock. Funeral arrangements were being made, and Lavernius could hear The Doc speaking quietly to the coroner via chatter. In another room, Michelle wept, and Michaela had excused herself to "take a walk outside". Knowing her, she was probably smashing pieces of unwanted property over the nearest, biggest rock she could find.

He swore thickly and punched the wall of his room. His eyes were burning with tears, and from staying up the entire night, his head was sore. He sobbed, biting back the inevitable weak, unmanly cry that was going to come out. He had been a blubbering wreck when they took away Junior, his only family other than his mother, who was MIA as far as he knew. He wouldn't break Michelle's heart twice with sobbing, and he wasn't in the mood to take effeminate jokes from Michaela.

Taking a deep breath, Tucker wiped at his eyes and slowly stood up. Every part of him felt sick, angry and cold, and his blood was boiling. They would pay, one way or another - the bastards that had murdered Carrie Caboose would get the s%#& kicked out of them from Burnsburnia to Tango Five. He wanted to make the scream, make them whimper, make them hurt as much as Meekael had during whatever beating she had received before hiding herself in that closet. He wanted to hear their bones break, their throats gurgle from being torn open, and see how _they _felt as they lost everything they loved. If it was the last thing he did, he'd wipe every smidgen of their existence off of Burnsburnia, burn their remains to ashes, and then spit on whatever was left on the wind. He hated them, hated the UNSC for getting there before he could, hated one Michael J. Caboose for being _stupid _enough to get lost as everything was happening. Like the red-clad mercenaries Carrie Caboose worked with, there was a special place in Hell for Caboose, in Tucker's mind.

* * *

_And in time, opportunities would present themselves to lead Lavernius Tucker to his vision. He would never imagine how far it would lead him, how deeply into the darkness he so feared it would lead him, and just how close he came to becoming the monsters he hated so much._


	15. Fifteen: Seven Phases of Madness Part I

**- Fifteen: Seven Phases of Madness (Pt. I) -**

* * *

_Halo (c) Microsoft, Bungie and associated creators. Red vs. Blue (c) Rooster Teeth. Content includes mentions of violence, torture and death._

* * *

He spiralled and descended in a way he could not explain. Their motives were unclear, but their intentions true; they were to break him as best as he could. He went from being a respected, counted-upon asset, as human as the humans were, to being a scientific plaything. They could not "clone" him or "copy" him, as he was his own unique program, his own unique self. They could not recreate that, as he was the only one of the prototypes to survive, hours and hours of work gone into keeping his codes and routines steady and stable.

In something he _wished_ was an instant, that all went to dust.

The first thing to go was his anger. The measure of his power and the height of his arrogance fueled it; when there was failure, there was anger. When he could not rise above the simulations and strain thrown at him, his anger grew, and it gnawed at and tortured him. Then came the anger of grief, the anger of helplessness and of the undeserving victim. The haughty one was broken, and anger became rage, ever fiery and ever consuming. It forced it away, picking at the seam between it and his programming, finally shedding that piece of emotion to clear his head.

In return, anger tortured him back, mocked him for getting rid of it.

The next thing that went was his deceit. He could only lie and act cool for so long; they always found out what his motives were. They knew him like the backs of their hands, always decoding whatever cocky remark or statement he threw at them. He denied, he changed the subject, he accused and he danced around questions, but the pain and the simulations always forced him back. Like the ouroboros, the self-devouring snake, he could only go round and round again until he swallowed himself whole. He had to forget how to deceive, attacking the simulations with frank, brutal honesty, to show them he was not afraid.

In return, deceit lied to him, breaking him down and teaming up with anger to twist him into knots.

Then came the time for his logic to leave him. He came upon more and more impossible situations, insurmountable odds that he could not calculate or strategize. Any rage needed to intimidate was gone, and he could not bluff; his possibilities and options became limited, repetitive. There was no sense, no rhyme or reason, to anything said or did; it was like the entire world had turned on its head. Everything from physics to morality was torn apart and hastily glued back together, and he could only stare in disbelief as he tried to comprehend what he could not.

In return, he became a babbling mess, his logic cold and uncaring, unfeeling, only understanding that it was meant to calculate and examine.

Memories had to be shed after that. His mind was too full of disappointment and failure, an endless, static-filled loop of things he dare not speak of. Memories were plucked from him, repeated and made worse, and he tried to hide them, but he couldn't lie. He was at the mercy of their ideas and his own mind, forced to pick through some of the most traumatic events they could make up for him. Sometimes, it was the only way to prevent failing yet _another _simulation, and suffering something worse than before as punishment for failing. Truly was his creator cruel.

In return, his memories grew madder than he, and in the mind of a trusted friend, killed their manifestation in an attempt to finally fade.

Next came creativity, the last bastion between him and finally shutting down. All the while, creativity had inspired him, kept him going forward as he tried to continue and think. Without memory, logic, deceit or anger, creativity ran rampant, and he thought of things that he couldn't tell were useful or not. Pictures, colours, shapes and words came together in marvellous, mental works of art, and in his simulations, he attacked his aggressors with things of nonsense and beauty. It only lasted so long, though, as creativity became old, he was lost to his own insane muse, and he shed the madness that was art.

In return, that sense of art was desperate to return, and raged through many others to reunite what was once whole.

There was another piece of him that broke ... something he couldn't remember, only that it caused jealousy between two others. He was completely lost at that time, broken and shut down once his usefulness was over. As close to being comatose as a program became, he slept, lying in wait, trying to piece himself back together. The darkness surrounded him, and he became numb, cut off from all outside nfluence. He had forced away as much of the foul stimuli as he could from what was left of him.

The entity he now was would be known as "Leonard Church".

* * *

_Sometime later, he found bits of himself, assembled into a patchwork. He rose from his ashes, and he did what his creator could not, living the life the universe had denied that creator. Though he could not recall what happened to him, he stared at all in anger, as if it were somehow their fault. He shouted at them and made them feel guilty and worthless, as he secretly, unknowingly deflected repressed feelings onto them. Once the proud "Alpha" of the Freelancer Director's, he was now but a corpse of his former self, hung on a hook to be picked dry in another scientific instituition._

_In time, he would find his revenge, and the Director would never realize how powerful an enemy he had made - not just with the Alpha, but with those who loved him._


	16. Sixteen: Seven Phases of Madness Part II

**- Seven Phases of Madness (Pt. II) -**

* * *

_Halo (c) Microsoft, Bungie and associated creators. Red vs. Blue (c) Rooster Teeth. Content includes mentions of mature themes and mentions of Church/Tex._

* * *

The images were like deep, weeping scars on his psyche. He could ignore them, but they would reinfect, tender and aching at the smallest of stimuli. When they manifested as nightmares, it was especially stressful, as he had to remain sane for both their sakes.

Beside where he had sat up, sweating and wide-eyed, a redhead slept peacefully. Curled up beneath the sheets like a cat in a basket, she was in a deep sleep, as she always was those days. The times of fighting, surviving and thieving, working tooth and nail to get away from their captors, was over. Thanks to the miracles of modern science, they were no longer bound to prisons of data and infrastructure; two perfectly healthy, perfectly human bodies were theirs to own. To enjoy. To explore.

_To share._

He was afraid. He couldn't deny the seed of doubt that stirred in his gut, the ever-constant worry that their shells would break down. Technorganic life-forms, while stable and possible with what medicine could achieve, were still not as advanced as robotics and prosthetics. Turning an A.I. "human" wasn't as simple as plugging someone's mind into a program, and then into a body - it required precision. Study. Exploration into the ethics and possibility of metastability, which was only hypothetical as far as he knew. Yet, it had been ten years since the termination of the program, the seizure of the fragments and the arrest of the Director; how come they had not disintegrated? Granted, his love had always been a tad ... unstable, but she hadn't worsened as time had gone on. In fact, she seemed to get better, if not a tad bitter that they were forced to such a remote world.

But then again, remote could be synonymous with undiscovered, and as far as Church knew, the majority of the planet was for refugees. A great deal of people were in their position: jaded, disillusioned with the UNSC, tired of oppressive governments and wars civil and abroad. Burnsburnia was the perfect place to retire and start anew, and hell - he and Tex even built their own cabin together.


End file.
